A child's pink purple white glove, fluttering from a black, boney wrist, waves as I walk by. Carnations, broken, Titian red, are scattered in the grass.
Runners' conversations float by me in dreamy, syncopated gasps, sentences never ended, thoughts incomplete.
And in the center of a maze silhouetted by fog, a solitary crow contemplates his options, while the ducks on Greenlake scribe perfect Vs in the water.
Walkers hug warm paper cups filled with lattes and sweet chai tea as we turn for home.
One look back, and the lake is swallowed up by winter.